


The Little Spanish Doll

by Sandentwins



Category: Taiyou no Ko Esteban | Les Mystérieuses Cités d'or | The Mysterious Cities of Gold
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 10:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18118745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandentwins/pseuds/Sandentwins
Summary: And just like that, Zia's world is gone. All that's left now is the life of a decoration.





	The Little Spanish Doll

She doesn't like it here.

It feels strange, and foreign. It feels unknown, and it scares her, and she doesn't want to be there. She wants to shout, to refuse, to run away from this place, but she knows that these mean people would kill her if she moved as much as a twitch. So she stays still, like an animal about to be devoured, not knowing what to do.

She's tired, she feels like crying, but she knows she can't. They'll hurt her if she lets her eyes well up. They've already done so. She tries to hold back her tears, walking ahead on small steps as she's being led through unfamiliar halls. She feels all the eyes on her, and it makes her uneasy, and she wishes they would all just look away, and ignore her, and let her escape from this place they've led her to. But no one here will, she knows. No one here will bother helping her.

They stop in a large room, where a small crowd is gathered. She can see some people sitting on very large chairs, decked in jewels and fine clothes. The rude Spaniards that brought her here bow down to them, and she's left standing awkwardly, glancing about the throne room with frightened eyes.

They speak words she doesn't understand. Who are these people? What are they talking about? What are they going to do to her? There's a hand on her back, that shoves and brutally pushes her until she's on her hands, bowing to these people as well. She understands they're the leaders, and she has to show them respect, but she doesn't want to! They're not _her_ leaders, they're not people she could show respect to! The hand forces her head down anyway, and she starts feeling ashamed of herself, ashamed that she has to bow to these strangers, to these people who took her away from home like she was a hare caught in a trap. She hates it, and once more the tears come up, but she tries to shut them, to not cry. Do not cry, do not let them hurt you again!

There's more hands taking her up, forcing her back on her feet, and she's led towards one of the leading people. She's dressed in all sorts of pretty clothes and she's speaking with a happy voice. Zia thinks at first that maybe she won't be too mean with her, but then her face is being held and observed like a bauble and her hair is being touched and her hands are being held and admired and _she hates it, why are they touching her, why are they looking at her like a doll, make them stop, she doesn't like it, she doesn't like it at all._ She's being led away from the Spaniards, but the high-pitched voices of the tall women around give her a headache, and she only follows in fear of what they'll do to her if she doesn't comply.

She feels like an object in their hands. Before she knows it, her clothes and her jewels are gone, and she's thrown in icy water and scrubbed all over by hands she desperately tries to avoid, but they're stronger than her and hold her arms still as she's being washed without care or gentleness, and it's invasive and she hates it and they're still saying all these things she doesn't understand and that scares her, and the rough tone of their voices when they speak to her is what forces her to stay quiet and not cry. Luckily it's soon over, and they then put strange clothing on her that she doesn't like, that's too tight on her and makes it hard to move. She catches a glimpse of herself in a mirror and she feels horrible, she looks ugly in these unknown garments, and then her hair is brushed and forced and pulled into the gross upward hairstyle of the women here, and they look proud of themselves for making Zia into a splitting image of the other girls here, but in the mirror they hold to her she only sees a stranger.

She hates it. She's nothing like a little Inca girl anymore, she's one of these tall and articifial people that took her away from home. And she hates it not only because she feels ugly like this, but also because she's not herself anymore. She's become one of them, one of these horrible people, and it makes her frown and cry. But they shush her with other aggressive words, and she forces a smile.

As they lead her somewhere else, she realizes she doesn't feel the medallion around her neck. They've taken it off! She squirms and tries to wriggle free of their hands, to return to where they've discarded her clothes, the good clothes that still smelled like home, but they force her and want her to move forward, but she can't, she can't just leave behind this very important legacy, the one thing her mother had told her to watch over, and she keeps trying to run and tell them it's important but they don't understand, and they shout and suddenly it _hits_ against her face and she falls on the ground, searing pain burning over her cheek, and before she knows it she's crying, she's wailing out and letting out the pain she feels, she knows she mustn't but _they don't have the right to do this_ , they can't do this to her, they don't know how important it is to her-

She's lifted up and the older woman is _shouting_ at her, her voice like a harpy about to eat her, but Zia doesn't know what she's done wrong and doesn't know what these words say and she keeps crying, her hands covering her wet eyes, because in that moment she doesn't know what to do, she's scared, she's lost, and _she wants her father, she wants her home, she wants her friends and her house and her life and her medallion and her freedom-_

The grip on her releases, and she falls on her knees to keep crying, because she doesn't have anything else left. She's calling for her father, and she knows none of these people understand her words, none of these people understand her pain, for none of these people ever had their home and their life taken away from them. She cries and she sobs, lost, afraid and confused, and that's when she feels a soft touch on her back. She's afraid to look up at first, but when she does peek through her wet fingers, she sees the face of one of these women, smiling at her. She holds out something to her: it's a bundle of the clothes she wore when arriving here. Without thinking, she reached for it, dug through with her frightened child's hands, and- yes! It was here! The medallion of her mother! She grasps it in her hands and keeps it close to her, and- and she also grabs the headband, and the golden bracelets, and the little green dress and she holds all of these against her, because they're from _home_ , they smell like good wool and grass and sunlight, and not like metal and fear and stone castles. She holds them against her like treasures, like _her_ treasures, that no one can take from her.

The smiling woman says something she doesn't understand, and a hand touches to her chin. Zia freezes, fearing another slap, but the hand gently puts her face up, and she gets a look at her. Slowly, a handkerchief is pressed against her teary cheeks, and the softness of the touch surprises her. The woman keeps speaking, and she still doesn't understand but she hears that soft, almost whispering voice, and she starts thinking that this one maybe doesn't want to harm her. The other, mean women do not say anything, and when Zia is done crying the nice one offers her hand, and she accepts it with reluctance, still holding the bundle tight against her.

She's sat at a table, and the food they give her is strange and unknown but it's food, and she hasn't eaten very well on the big boat so she helps herself hungrily, tempted by the sights yet disappointed by the tastes, and already missing the chewy cornbread and colorful tomatoes and savory peppers, but she tries to imagine she's home, eating with her family after they've all cooked together, and they're happy and rejoicing, unlike this silent meal where no one is talking and she doesn't even know what she's putting in her mouth. The woman keeps watching her, and Zia keeps fearing she'll suddenly hurt her if she does anything wrong, but nothing of the sort happens.

She's then led to a big garden in the court of the stone castle, and for once since she got here her eyes widen. There's so many flowers here! She wants to run, to explore around, to climb up trees and catch bugs, but she can barely move in that tight dress. So she has to follow the woman, who's walking slowly and taking in the sights. While she's not looking, Zia picks a tiny flower from a bush, a flower that looks like the ones they have at home. She remembers her father's lessons, when he taught her the knowledge of plants and herbs, and in her head she gives a name to all of these unknown ones, pretending they have medicinal properties and she's a healer choosing ingredients for a remedy. She hides the flowers she picks in a fold of the ugly dress, and this game makes her feel a little better.

She's then taken to a big building with high ceilings and windows of colored glass, that draw pictures in multi-colored light. She doesn't understand where they are, or why it smells so strange and why is everyone suddenly on their knees, and she watches with nervousness as every little sound echoes around her and makes her feel uneasy. Whatever that place is, she's decided she doesn't like it.

The rest of the castle is very big, with lots of stairs and tiny windows and tapestries that figure odd scenes. She wonders what they mean, and if anyone could ever tell her. The tongue of the Spaniards sounds scary to her ears, and under her breath she whispers words she knows, to hear something familiar for once. Words of hope, of happiness: sunshine, water, flower, home, alpaca, temple, corn, fruit. She keeps them close to her ears, close to her heart, where they hide like a secret that these people will never take away from her. They'll be her secret, her knowledge, and they'll never leave her. She makes sure of it.

She's guided through many rooms she doesn't know, places she can't recognize. But in the last one, she sees what looks like a bed. It's been made just now, and everything around looks clean, untouched. The woman leads her in, invites her to look around. There's big curtains, torches that shine a wavering light on the stone walls. On the side, there's an open chest that's filled with wooden horses, dolls and figures. There are clothes laid in the wardrobe, more ugly clothes that itch and squeeze; and on one of the walls, on a big tapestry, she finds her home.

She thinks she's dreaming. But her wide eyes do see right: on the wall is a picture of her home, of the big temples of Machu Picchu, with the trees and flowers around and the tall stone steps and the procession going up, and for a moment she's _here_ , she remembers the time she and her father went there to pay their respects to the gods, and her eyes start crying again. She misses her home! She misses it, she misses her life, she misses it so much that it hurts her! And she sits on the ground, eyes transfixed on that picture, and she cries again.

There's a hand on her shoulder, gently patting her and whispering in gentle tones. She wants to say what's wrong, what she feels, but she can't, because no one here can understand her. So she says nothing, letting her tears out, letting them hit and do their damage until she's too tired to cry anymore.

She wants to go home. But her home is too far away, now. And all she has left is this picture, the bundle of clothes in her arms, and the secrets hidden in her heart.

The woman smiles at her and keeps speaking. She's handing out one of the dolls to her, and Zia takes it with reluctance, looking at a pale porcelain face with curly hair like maize, that looks back at her with empty eyes. She tries to hold back her tears, to tell herself it's alright, but it's lying to herself.

The woman eventually leaves, and Zia's left in the room. She sniffles and sits on the tall bed, looking through her bundle and taking out the medallion of her mother. Quelling a sob, she put it on, hiding it under her collar. Then she pulled on her hair until it fell back in a natural way, and put on the headband, feeling the familiar squeeze on her head that made her feel better. Carefully folding the dress, she hid it somewhere deep in the wardrobe, where no one would find it. It would be her secret. If she wanted to not cry, she had to keep it a secret.

Then, she picked up the doll from where she's left it, and hugged it to her chest in an attempt to feel better. But the hard porcelain didn't agree with her touch, and it didn't feel good. She frowned, stopping her attempt at feeling better. 

This doll was a toy, a decoration. Something to deck in pretty clothes and display where everyone could see it. Something exotic, something that wasn't required to think or speak. Something that one could just give to another, and no one would bat an eye. Something that was meant to live a lonely life of prize, of trophy, of trinket. 

She put the toy back in the chest, surrounded with its many little sisters, arranged in a small group hug. At least, it would not be alone. That was the least she could do.

Dolls had to help one another, after all.


End file.
